The name of the place was Bow Wow Beach, or something nearly as corny, and for December 4th it was pretty busy. All shape and size of dog owner with all shape and size of dog patrolled it, barking and correcting as they went.
While the name was a little sappy, the facility was a gem for the dog owner. It was a giant park, all fenced in, where you could let your dog off the leash without worry of him failing to ever come back. In shape, it was a big, ovular track, the kind you’d walk around at a high school football game except instead of a field in the center there was a pond about the same size. There were also smaller cavity cages inside the main perimeter where small dogs could run crazy without fear of getting trampled or eaten by a big one.
As we pulled in, I let the window down to Xylo to sniff. The big dogs barked out threats like they might find enough energy to relocate. Water dogs splashed around in the shallow portion of the pond fetching the crap their owners threw there. And the little, yappy, drop-kicker dogs flitted around, yipping in protest of everything not under their control. It drove Xylo nuts.
Xylo, as soon as he got out of the car, was trying to hang himself. His martingale collar could squeeze him like a boa constrictor and he’d still have the leash pulled stiff. So many Dogs to chase down, places to run, asses to sniff! It was doggie Nirvana, and he could not wait to get tangled up in the action.
It was muddy and sloppy thanks to the perpetual sog of Ohio, and the wife and I where carrying a bag full of dog parents items. Stuff like wipes for dirty feet, treats for behavior manipulations, and toys for a good human canine bonding session, which we planned to immortalize on our dSLR. We took it slow to minimize the mess, but Xylo could not go fast enough.
We had entirely to much stuff with us to keep up with a greyhound. As soon as the collar was disconnected from the leash, Xylo was a shot—45 mph of dog racing to the nearest vertical tail. He was scary fast, a regular bare assed black bolt that ran down every animal in site with ease. People stopped to watch him streak by, both because he was so fast and because we’d dressed him up like a dinosaur for the excursion.
We weren’t stupid though, we knew he’d jet when off the leash, so we put him in one of the cavity cages, the biggest one they had, about 80 yards long and 60 yards wide. It had fencing on all three sides, and water on the final side to make it a contained space.
Xylo zipped up and down the fencing, trying futilely to get to the other dogs beyond.
When all dogs in range of the fence departed his presence he looked back at us for the first time. We shrugged. Then a dog barked from across the pond. Xylo spun to the sound, locked on, and took off.
It did not occur to me that, among all the things greyhounds are not accustom too when they come from the track to take residency in a home—like mirrors, stairs, and vacuum cleaners—they are also unfamiliar with bodies of water. This explains why, at 45 mph, Xylo charged into the pond.
In the split second that it took him to hit water, a lot of thoughts went through my head. One, he’ll stop. When he didn’t: Two, he’ll only go in a short way. When he didn’t: Three, He’ll turn around when he feels how cold it is. When he didn’t: Four, shit, I have nothing to dry him with!
I started to call his name in frustration, but then he was gone. Not gone as in out of site, but gone as he’d run off the sand bar and into the deep end of the pond and was completely under the water. He was gone.
My wife and I turned looked at each other. Her mouth was open. So was mine, the difference was, laughter was coming out. I’d just witnessed the equivalent of a human drive a car at top speed into a pond, how could I not laugh?
Xylo’s head popped out. I knew it would, it wasn’t like there was some dog pond kraken that pulled him under. He paddled back to the sand bar and stopped. He was frozen in the pond, either because it was cold or because he was shell-shocked by how wet water is.
Though I was greatly concerned for him considering the cold, I felt it a disservice to everyone in the park to stop laughing. Instead, laughing, I came to him near the water’s edge and called him over. He didn’t move.
“A hell. He’s going to make me go out there and get him. Come on Xylo, come here buddy.”
Xylo started to move—thank God for that—but not in my direction. He exited the pond heading towards other dogs again. Once he was on the beach, he started up the motor and was gone, leaving us locked in the pen behind him.
I was sent to the car to get the blanket I used to line the back seats when transporting Xylo. I was not a fan of the idea as it would make my car reek of wet dog. But, it was either that or I give him my jacket.
Meanwhile, Bonnie chased after Xylo, but only after leaving all of the doggie parent items on the ground for me to collect when I came back from the car. I scooped them up along with the queen sized comforter and ran after the pair. People stared at me. Judging.
Someone finally caught Xylo by the collar for us. They held him my wife arrived. When she did, Xylo was shivering and leaned into my wife, soaking her with pond water. I showed soon after draped the blanket over him. We wrapped him and rubbed him, but I was obviously dejected about the whole thing. My wife noticed this and asked, “What’s the matter? Are you upset that we are making this blanket stink?”
“What? Oh, no, of course not. He’s freezing?”
“Then what is it?”
“How they hell did we not get that on camera? That was the highlight of dog ownership so far and we blew it!”
win a copy of OUT OF MY LEAGUE by Baking!
